SH for Sherlock Holmes
by Pentakill Lux
Summary: John gets caught up in the vindictive crusade of the mysterious SH, a man with a mission to free England from the tyrannic rule of Chancellor Moriarty. On his trail is DI Lestrade and SH's own brother, who's afraid that SH will end up as the victim again.


Notes: SH for Sherlock Holmes is a V for Vendetta Crossover. The reason it's not tagged as a x-over as that there is none of the original characters left in the story. The BBC Sherlock Characters you encounter throughout the story will resemble their counterparts in V for Vendetta, but the actions they take, and their motivations and decisions will in large parts stay true to the original BBC Sherlock character, which in the end will reflect on the course of the story.

Disclaimer: Any Names and Copyrighted material you encounter throughout the story is hereby credited to their rightful owners. No profit is being made from this work.

* * *

His breath left clouds hanging in the air as John Watson hurried along the deserted streets of London; The frost had gotten a hold of the better part of England, but there were no prospects of snow. Even London - former City of Umbrellas - hadn't seen snow in nine years and not nearly enough rain to merit any allusion.

The biting frost weren't what was keeping people off the streets, however, and as John turned a corner he noticed the sound of footsteps somewhere behind him - two sets - eager to catch up, but keeping safe distance. He knew who were following him, he knew he was a part of a delightful game, a game that kept all sane people indoor after curfew. But John Watson wasn't a sane person. He was a soldier, trained for combat and survival and he knew that against two of these untrained Fingermen, hardly more than vigilantes and mercenaries, he had a pretty good chance if it were to come to a fight.

But the Fingermen knew who they were dealing with, they knew John fell under Mycroft's protection, so they kept their distance. Still… John knew well enough that one of these days these vermin just wouldn't care anymore.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade would later tell him that everything seemed to have been connected, part of a greater plan. And looking back to this very night, the night the Fingermen chose to strike, John would have to agree with Lestrade.

Perhaps they could feel his distraction. Mycroft had only hinted at what tonight's meeting would be about, but that was enough to drag John's attention away from the streets and alleys around him. Not very professional, admitted, but with the rumors and whispers their organisation had intercepted lately spinning in his head and him steadily approaching 50 hours with out sleep, John was slipping.

He didn't notice when the two sets of footsteps became four, nor did he notice that the alley he usually used to cut across to their rendezvous were currently blocked by a burly man in a grey overcoat.

John didn't remember the last time he had a start; usually his sharp senses kept him from running into to too many unpleasant surprises. This meant that the adrenaline, always so carefully under control, spiked through his body like a jolt of lightning, making his dizzy head sharp in an instant.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." The man said, picture of courtesy and remorse. But then suddenly there were two shadows closing in somewhere in John's peripheral vision and even before the first man added the words: "Best to keep your eyes on the road right ahead of you - Doctor Watson." John knew he was in trouble.

"_Captain_ Watson." John corrected in a harsh voice, straightening his back to gain a bit of height on the man in front of him.

"If you prefer." The man looked John over, looking more like a predictor by the minute. "But I don't think it'll matter much to my friends. They don't care much about fancy titles, you see." Grey Overcoat added and gestured behind John where the two men were closing in, blocking any easy escape John might have contemplated.

"We aren't very picky, you see." One of them hissed, making the little hairs on John's neck stand up. He was suddenly realising the situation. He had been prepared for a fight, could take a beating as well as he could hand them out, but this, he wasn't prepared for this.

Grey Overcoat was smirking at him, as if he knew what John was thinking, as if he could smell the sudden rush of fear - perhaps he could - and John had to mentally slap himself and remind himself that he could take three untrained bullies with little effort if it came down to it.

"There, there Captain Watson." Grey Overcoat said, silky drawl making John's skin crawl. "No need to get all defensive. It'll hurt much less if you don't fight."

"Not saying that it'll be painless though." The lanky man behind John added making the two other men laugh.

"In fact." A fourth voice said from the shadows. A strong looking man with a leather jacket stepped into the sparse street light and tilted his head, taking John in like he was editable. "You can be very sure there will be a great deal of pain involved. But you won't mind that, will you Captain?" John clenched his jaw and tried to stay calm, analyzing the best way to eliminate four opponents with the best possible outcome for himself. His odds were bad in any scenario.

Grey Overcoat and Lanky attacked at the same time and John managed to dodge the first fist to his face, instead getting knocked to the ground by Leather Jacket. "Don't be like that, Sweetheart. We're in no hurry."

John felt hands fumbling with the buttons of his jeans and a surge of panic helped him fight free and roll to his knees.

Leather Jacket just smiled and nodded to his pets, and John found himself fighting teeth and nails against three men, but also against sudden black outs and a dizzy head. "It's okay, Doctor Watson." Leather Jacket said close to John's ear as a rough hand wrapped around his neck, pinning him to the cold bricks and another hand ripping his pants open. "I wouldn't have thought this was fun if you didn't put up a fight."

John might have blacked out again, because the next thing he knew his hands were free and the smell of leather and sweat was being pulled away from him and thrown against the opposite wall.

Mycroft found me, John thought, No it's far too early, they wouldn't be missing me yet.

Around him his attackers were yelling and scrambling around, and John forced himself to focus, to make sure this new threat didn't apply to him. What he saw was a swish of motion, almost like a dance; A dark figure swirling around the darkened alley, taking down the Fingermen, one by one. He got to his feet, swaying, and managed to close his pants. When he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder there were something in the touch that made him relax, made him feel he was safe now, or perhaps it was just his fogged brain finally giving in and giving up.

"Doctor Watson? John?" The voice was deep but pleasant and John could feel himself looking up into grey, worried eyes. "Your head is bleeding. I need you to lie down and relax. I'll try to put a bandage on it."

His head was bleeding? Of cause, that would explain the blurred vision and the blackouts. He must have hit it harder than he thought when Leather Jacket had knocked him on his back. How could he have missed that? 50 hours with out sleep was making him a horrible doctor and a lousy fighter.

He felt tentative hands in his hair, gently prodding around the bleeding wound. John tried not to flinch, after all the pain was bearable. "It's superficial, but you'll need to have it cleaned. Has the blow had any effect on your vision? Incoherent thoughts? Trouble focusing?" The deep voice asked. So far his rescuer was only velvet darkness and grey eyes. "John, talk to me. Are you okay?"

"You saved me." John choked out, finding his voice.

"Excelent observation, John. Really good."

John wasn't sure if he's being made fun of. "The men…?"

"Are eliminated. It wasn't much of a challenge. You'd managed to fracture one of their wrists and dislocate a shoulder, break two noses. I'm surprised they didn't give up. They must have really wanted you."

"They think I'm fun." John tried to explain. Why was he the one explaining? It was this stranger that was a mystery, an enigma. "Because I work for Mycroft." He turned his head and for the fist time he got a good look at the stranger.

The word beautiful may or may not have passed though John's mind, certainly there was a subtle feminine appeal. The stranger had high cheekbones and a long, pale face framed by dark curls. His eyes were darker than the pale grey he'd seen before, but still piercing, flickering over John's face as if looking for something.

"Of cause you do." The stranger said, and it was almost a sigh.

"What is that supposed to mean?" John asked, defenses up although he wasn't sure why.

"It means that, like Darwin I am turned into a machine for observing facts and grinding out conclusions. But unlike Darwin I do not believe in coincidence." The stranger ran his long fingers over the makeshift bandage on the back of John's head, so hesitantly and tender it was almost a caress. "This should do." He said, straightening out of his crouch and stepping away. "You might be experiencing some short term memory loss and problems keeping focus due to the blow to your head, but I imagine you'll be well aware of this; You'd hardly need to attend one day in medical school before they cry your ears full of head trauma and lesions. I'd take you home, but I'm rather busy. In fact…" The stranger looked down the alley, at his watch and back at John, seemingly making up his mind about something. "In fact you should come."

"What?"

"Come with me. I'm on my way to an opening ceremony of sorts, very covert, very lavish. You work for Mycroft, this should be right up your street."

"I don't actually…" John started to protest. He wasn't like Mycroft at all. But the stranger clearly took it as a protest against going, which John hadn't even gotten around to considering.

"Don't be boring John." Using John's name so casually now, as if they had known each other for years. And still this man in front of him was a total stranger. A lifesaving, shadow-dancing, beautiful - no scratch that - completely fascinating stranger, and John had no idea what his name was. John was, however, considering upgrading the stranger to capital initial letter.

John noticed that The Stranger was currently focusing his full attention on John. For some reason it felt like a physical weight. "It could be dangerous." The Stranger purred on, his glossy baritone filled with temptation.

The view over London was magnificent. The November air was clear and icy, stabbing in John's lungs, when he drew in a surprised gasp.

"Beautiful isn't it?" The Stranger asked, looking over the city and then down at John, as if he had already accepted that John was a silent man by nature and should be watched for answers, observed for changes is his facial expression and position. John looked into The Strangers eyes, and for a second he saw the entirety of London's light reflected in those grey eyes.

"So this is the opening ceremony?" John asked, feeling comfortable enough to speak up at last. "Not very lavish."

"Your powers of observation continues to serve you well John." The Stranger smiled an amused little smile and once more John had the distinct feeling that he was being mocked. "Can you tell me what day it is, John?"

"I didn't hurt my head that bad. I know what day it is." John protested, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket as a frosty wind swept over the roof top they were standing on. The Stranger just smiled wider.

"Humor me then, John."

"The fourth of November." John said, just as Big Ben started on the Twelve o'clock chimes.

"Not anymore." The Stranger corrected and turned to face London again. "Remember, remember the fifth of November. The gunpowder treason and plot. I see of no reason that the gunpowder treason should ever be forgot." The Stranger cast a quick glance back at John, who was slowly stepping closer to the edge. "Oh don't worry, John. It isn't customary for me to go around quoting poetry." The Stranger must have seen the look of amused confusion on John's face, he thought he had done a very good job at hiding it, though. "But this is a special poem and this is a very special occasion." The man went on. "Listen, John. Let your inferior senses stretch out, pay attention. Can you hear it?"

In three seconds flat John managed to think: `_Oh God, Well done John. You've followed a mad man on to a roof, and any minute now he's going to throw you down from here and you'll splatter on the pavement like a bug. Well, better than dying in that alley, I suppose. Less painful, at least. Typical my luck, really, getting saved just to suddenly find myself as the only guest at the party of the nutty professor. And now I'm hearing music, so I supposed I fit in well at this party. Did I really hit my head that bad. No wait._´

"That's actual music!" He blurted out and took the last step to the edge, looking down at the dark streets of London. "That's real music playing."

"To be accurate it's a recording." The stranger corrected him with a badly hidden smile. "But keep those senses working John, we're almost at the best part!"

The music picked up in volume and pace and John felt a rush of excitement that seconds later was replaced with John's second surge of adrenalin that night, as the dome of The Old Bailey in front of them exploded in a missive ball of fire.

Flash backs rushed through John's mind, explosions from another life, gunshots fired, men screaming and falling at his feet, bleeding - so much blood - and dying in his arms.

The Stranger hadn't seemed to notice, his eyes focused on the view - and what a view it was. The clear dark-blue night sky ablaze with orange fire, and then suddenly there were fireworks, red and golden, dazzling and lavish, just as promised. And the other man was smiling, not a cold psychopathic smile one would expect from someone who just blew up one of the most iconic structures in all of London, all of England. No, it was a sad smile, the smile of a man who had started his crusade, a fight for what was right. The smile of a man who was giving up everything for what he believed in, in order to make a better world. John, if anyone, knew what that smile looked like. He had seen it in a mirror so may times.

* * *

"I don't get it." Sgt. Donovan said and looked at the surveillance report again. "It's like he knew exactly how to avoid every camera and those streets are well covered."

"He certainly seem well prepared." Lestrade agreed and leaned back in his chair and pushed a stack of photographs across the desk. "The only lead we have is this man. He was captured on the CCTV cams shortly before midnight in that area. This morning four Fingermen was found killed in an alley close by."

"Do you think it's connected, Sir?"

"I find that hard to believe. We don't have a positive ID on him yet, but I doubt a man who is smart enough to pull all this off with out compromising himself the slightest bit would make such a messy slip." Lestrade said, but at the same time made a distinctive "who-the-hell-knows?"-shrug. "I don't particulaly have the need to investigate the murders of those men, it's Holmes' division and those men were scum on the best of days. But this man might have seen something. So I reckon we should go pick him up, take him in for questioning."

"I agree, Sir." Donovan said and got to her feet. "I'll go see if they have a face recognition and an address."

It took her less than five minutes and Lestrade was pretty sure she had been running. "Sir, I have bad news. Our lead? You wont guess who he is." She waited for Lestrade to make a guess anyway, even though they had already established that Lestrade had no clue five minutes ago and had been handed no new leads since then. This fact seemed to dawn on Sgt. Donovan after a few seconds and she coughed and continued, as Lestrade tried not to sigh too loud.

"John Hamish Watson. Doctor and army Captain. He served in Afghanistan, but was injured and shipped home, but here's the fun part." Lestrade made a pained facial expression. Donovan's fun facts were never actually fun, nor were they ever particularly pleasant. "He works for Mr. Holmes."

"So he's a government official?"

"Yes and no."

"Pick one."

"Well, he's on Mr. Holmes' pay list, but he doesn't seem to be doing any actual work for him. He's not assigned to any of the departments nor is he registered as a freelance agent." Donovan made an apologetic face and continued. "They did manage to get a copy of his ID card and an address."

"So basically this man, John Watson, doesn't work?"

"But he does. He works a small medical clinic down town that specializes in on-site-care. I called the clinic, they are faxing over his work log for today."

Lestrade leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. "And just in five minutes?" Donovan couldn't help the flush that rose in her cheeks. "I'm beginning to see why I hired you Sargent."

* * *

Art made for this chapter can be found on my Tumblr(link on my profile) in the SH for Sherlock Holmes tab on my site.


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